GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #810: THE RETURN, PART 2

 

So the next day I went back to Graceland Cemetery to find Death from issue 2 and the Greek ruins from issue 3. Finding the statue of Death is easy. It marks the family grave of the pioneers who founded the City of Chicago. But no one is interested in the plaque on the back. Everyone wants to peer into Death's face to see how they're going to die.

That's not me talking out my ass. That's the urban legend. The first time I looked Death in the face? I saw Death's face and nothing more. That's held true for every subsequent time, including this most recent visit. Nothing. But it was good to see an old friend.

I was tempted to pull a Bill Murray in Ghostbusters 2 when he's taking pictures of a certain Carpathian, but maybe a cemetery isn't the best place to do that. But know in my mind I screamed, "Destroy me!"

Finding the place that looks like the Greek ruins on the cover of issue 3 was a little more difficult. Death is practically at the entrance. But I had to find the little island from which Fuller and I got the pictures for the third issue of Tabard Inn.

The cemetery was fairly deserted that day. I'd only seen one jogger there. But as I got closer to a forgotten corner I saw a coyote wandering around. Coyotes aren't super common around here, but they're not uncommon, either. Although this close to the city is a little weird. I'm more likely to see them across the street from where I live. The Prairie Path is home to more than a few.

But this guy looked a little big for a coyote, so I took a curve, and as I saw more of the front of the coyote, I realized, holy shit, it's a fucking WOLF. I don't think I've ever seen a dusty-colored wolf before, but that's what I was seeing in that moment. I stopped the car, and the wolf and I looked at each other for a while. I wondered what it would be like to come across such a creature in the wilderness. Wolves usually only attack in packs, but I felt certain that if I didn't have the protection of society and the car I was sitting in, this thing could tear me to pieces. If it wanted to.

It didn't want to. It seemed a little curious about me, but not curious enough to approach. So I waved, and it turned its head a little, and I drove off.

I did find the island, but that didn't mean I knew where the ruins were. I just knew I'd be able to find them once I had the island. It's a little island for a few graves, but you cross a bridge to get there. I like standing on bridges over small bodies of water because I can usually see the bottom, which means I can watch the fish. There are a lot of carp in that little creek, and I enjoyed my time watching them.

An attractive young woman approached me and asked if I was looking for someone. I smiled and said that I'm just enjoying the view. She said OK and walked away. Only then did I realize she was looking for a blind date. Meeting a blind date on an island in a cemetery? I'd love to hear that story.

But I make it a habit of not putting my nose where it doesn't belong. I'd found the island. I didn't need to walk around on it and interrupt her quiet time. I left her leaning on a grave, writing in a notebook.

I followed the path around until I found the ruins. They don't look quite like Greek ruins up close, but when seen through the trees from the island? Different story.

It's still a pretty excessive grave, but then again Graceland is full of those. I got up close to what I thought of as the Greek ruins.

It's a pretty imposing structure. I don't know who the Palmers were, but they must have been either very rich or very important or very both. A lot of local historical figures are buried at Graceland, including Allan Pinkerton.

I had the pictures I wanted, so I headed out of the cemetery. Which is kind of difficult because it's big, and you can get turned around easily. If you live in the Chicagoland area, I recommend spending an afternoon at Graceland. It's at the corner of Clark and Irving Park. It's a beautiful place.

Watch out for wolves . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #809: THE RETURN, PART 1

 

The last time I was out there was the week before I started working at my new job selling auto glass. But I drove out there last week just out of nostalgia's sake. Since I said I was throwing out all the remaining issues of Tabard Inn, the magazine I used to edit and publish, the locations where we shot the covers have been on my mind.

And if you're wondering, David William Fuller did all photo shoots for Tabard Inn *except* the bumper sticker photos. I was going to link to his website, but it's not there anymore. He works mostly as a DJ these days, so if you need a DJ, you can find him on my Facebook friends list. He used to be my neighbor, but the last time I saw him was for my friend, Jesse's, wedding. Which was a great day, from what I remember, which isn't much. I think those days were when the Liquor finally had me in its clutches and wouldn't let go. My drinking was pretty crazy in those days. But I remember Fuller being an excellent DJ.

At any rate, I first found the roadside tomb when I worked for the City of Elmhurst as a parts driver. I'm trying to remember where they sent me on this run. I'm pretty sure it was to a place out in Virgil, which is just about where farmland begins around here. There are farms before Virgil, but that's where farmland begins in earnest.

To get there you have to go down North Ave. for a long way. I'd never seen a roadside tomb before, and the fact that it was so close to home made it feel even weirder. I knew then that the first issue of my fiction magazine must bear this on its cover.

We had a little difficulty in getting out there, and it was at night, so of course in the middle of our photo shoot (without a permit, what do I look like, Mr. Moneybags?) we were stopped by the cops. Fuller's quick thinking got us through. He said we were working on a school project. We're both roughly the same age, but we always looked younger, so they bought it.

This time out was the first time I'd see the place clearly in the day (and without police lights flashing, I might add). So I took the picture above. I noticed for the first time that the tomb had a name on it: NORTON. And then I saw this little plaque on the gate:

That's pretty cool.

I heard a dog barking relentlessly, but it was across the street at a farm. As I went back to my car, I saw it was called the Norton Farm. There were a bunch of guys working by the barn, and I saw they were looking at me. It made me a bit self-conscious, especially now that I knew that whoever was buried here had living kin so very close by. This tomb is so old I doubt anyone living at the farm knew the deceased, but still. I never met my great-grandparents, for example, and I'd hate to think of some stranger taking pictures of their graves. So I got out of there.

Issues two and three had their covers taken at Graceland Cemetery about a hop, skip and jump from the Music Box Theater (and, oddly, an old friend's methadone clinic, where I drove her two days out of every week back in the summer of 2020. I went back there to take a few more photos. You'll see them in part 2 tomorrow night.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #266: THE RETURN

For the first time in a long time, I had this weekend to myself. No outings, no duties, nothing. So I did what any other sane human being would do: I got the Showtime add-on for Hulu and watched the entirety of the new Twin Peaks. I don't have Showtime, so I had to take advantage of that free trial.

Don't worry. The universe was kind enough to me for not spoiling the series for me, so I will return the favor and not talk about anything that happens on the show. I'm just going to talk about the show.

I didn't watch Twin Peaks when it first aired way back when. I discovered it roughly ten years later while in college. My brothers and I were hooked on it, and that final episode? Holy shit! It was the best thing ever on TV. And we all agreed: David Lynch is going to return in 25 years with more Twin Peaks. We were certain of it.

Imagine my joy when I saw David Lynch and Mark Frost put out the same tweet 25 years later.

Take all the insanity of Twin Peaks back in the day. Multiply it by 15 billion, and you're not even halfway close to the lunacy of The Return.

This is a direct message to everyone who is bringing shit from the past back to the present: If you are unwilling to match Lynch's creative power (dare I say even to exceed it?), don't bother. The Return is not nostalgic bullshit. It's something else entirely. I'm not sure if I understand it all just yet. The final episode for me just ended 15 minutes ago. I still have to process it.

This is what all good art does. It asks questions and sometimes doesn't answer them. I think I'm going to puzzle over this one for quite some time. I urge you to experience it for yourself.